DOTLAN EveMaps

They prop the pits as they go, they dig,
They load the little cars,
One on his knees, rooting like any pig;
Another leaning far
Over, looming big
Above his lamp's faint star.

The vein, it has no sudden ending:
Up go the broken tons.
The hammer and the rock, contending,
Rattle their bones.
They labor, bending,
In the dusty runs.

So dark in all, the little bird
They carry against the gas
Sits in his cage without a word,
Deluded by that blackness
Into sleep, then stirred
To fresh distress.

Picks shining like the nails of moles
Beneath the helmet lamps,
They honeycomb the dark for coal,
Hacking for their damp
Bituminous souls'
And bodies' cramp


--Ernest Kroll